


My Little Archer

by rikujo (helphiddlestoned)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Archery, Countries Using Human Names, I just wanted to write about Arthur shooting arrows, M/M, There is no set date for this I'm sorry, teens in appearance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-12 04:32:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9055504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helphiddlestoned/pseuds/rikujo
Summary: Arthur is in that adorable, awkward phase where his body doesn’t quite fit him right. He’s laughably gangly at times, suddenly all long limbs and nothing to him. Francis can’t help but want to laugh.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So I've had this written for ages but last time I tried to post it, it didn't work. This is basically Arthur doing archery practice while Francis watches. I've a firm belief that Arthur is a naturally fantastic archer.

Arthur is in that adorable, awkward phase where his body doesn’t quite fit him right. He’s laughably gangly at times, suddenly all long limbs and nothing to him, a lanky and lithe teenager in form despite the many years he has behind him. They age slowly, after all.

 

Francis can’t help but want to laugh.

 

His little Arthur, growing bigger and surlier by the day, and yet still himself. Sometimes he swears they’ll both meet their end forgetting to breathe when arguing, but of course that’s fantasy, given that they can’t even die when someone runs a sword through them. Still, it hurts enough.

 

Today, Francis isn’t thinking about arguing though. No, because today is one of those rare days where the English countryside is not drowning in rain but is lapped in sunshine instead, and Arthur has a bow in his hand, a quiver of arrows across his back…and he’s smiling.

 

Some centuries down the line, Francis will compare him to Robin Hood and Arthur will roll his eyes hard enough to make them fall out of his head, but for now Francis sits back on the waving grass of the hill and watches. He breathes in the fresh spring air, feels the breeze play with the ends of his hair, and waits as Arthur stands a little ahead of him with his green eyes fixed on the wood some distance away. The treetops rustle, the green almost as bright as Arthur’s eyes against the forget-me-not blue of the sky. The younger nation clasps his bow, pulls out an arrow, and notches it.

 

The bow is old already. A carved, beauteous thing, it was gifted to Arthur by a King now long dead—a king who doted on Arthur like a son—and there are detailed stories driven into the wood; tiny delicate pictures of battles and tales that will otherwise be forgotten in the passage of time. Still, Arthur takes good care of it and it’s been restrung a number of times.

 

The arrow sits, perfectly balance, against the frame as Arthur inhales deeply, slowly, and draws back his arm. It would look elegant on anyone else – almost does on Arthur, impressively – but really he’s so cute, half grown, and so the image is amusing instead. Doubtless, in a hundred years, it will be a picture that makes his breath catch and strikes fear into the hearts of men. For now, Francis will enjoy how sweet it seems…still a boy playing at war, still with his innocence intact…

 

That’s a lie, even now, he knows. Arthur has known his fair share of war already, they both have, but it’s a good lie and he’ll keep it for as long as he can.

 

Arthur drops his shoulders, tilts his elbow down a touch and fixes his eyes on a great oak a few trees in from the edge of the wood. Francis knows it’s that oak because it’s _always_ that oak. It always has been, right from when Arthur first started shooting and could barely move the bow string, it’s been that oak. Francis leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees and his chin on his hands.

 

Arthur loses the arrow and it shoots, cutting a perfect line through the air, until it buries itself deep into the bark of the oak with a thwack, dead on centre.

 

Francis lets out a small, satisfied huff, glancing Arthur’s way.

 

Suddenly, Arthur looks older, his eyes fixed on the arrow and _burning_ in a way Francis has never seen. He looks like he’d like to eat the world whole.

 

“You get better every time, petit lapin.” he calls.

 

And the image is ruined, thankfully, because Arthur grimaces in response and turns towards him, scowling. Francis really does laugh then, pleased that he can still affect him so.

 

“Is there a reason you’re here, frog?” Arthur bites.

 

Francis shrugs leisurely. “Not really, but are you actually going to tell me to leave? I’ve always watched you shoot, mon cher—what would you do without moi to chart your progress?”

 

“I’d probably have a much better day for a start.” Arthur drawls, grumpy as always, but Francis just chuckles back and continues watching as the younger picks out another arrow from his quiver.

 

“I wonder, mon cheri, can you split it down the middle now?” Francis asks, tilting his head, eyes on the arrow dug into the oak.

 

Arthur halts for a second, a brief moment of hesitation, but then he’s scoffing. “Of course I can. You may have no skill whatsoever but I was _born_ to be an archer. It’s a proper English pursuit.”

 

“Ah, oui, oui, whatever you say, Arthur. I’ll believe it when I see it.” He returns, waving the younger away with one hand, because he knows it will spark annoyance.

 

Sure enough, Arthur’s eyebrows pull downwards in irritation. “You’ll see it.” he swears, all hard lines and boyish, reckless determination as he notches the second arrow.

 

A few moments later when Arthur lets the arrow soar free, Francis’s lips pull upwards as splintering rents to the air and the first arrow is split in two, the pieces sagging away to each side with the new shot sprouting gloriously out of the tree between them.

 

Arthur turns back to him, a victorious smirk painting his face, and Francis nods.

 

“Very impressive, mon cher, you might be a master yet.”

 

Arthur just snorts, as if he couldn’t care less for the words, but his smile is back and those eyes are shining. Francis sighs contentedly. His little archer…he’s growing up.

 

Years later, Francis will look back and know he was mistaken. He will realise that, despite his appearance, Arthur had long been a man by then, and a fully capable one at that. He will realise he caught a glimpse of the future that day. He will realise he saw an empire in Arthur’s young eyes.

 

He will curse his own stupidity, his own contentment at drawing out those innocent days, because already he could spy what they would become, and he ignored it.

 

Arthur had taken a spark and cultivated it…and he’d made the world kneel before him.

 

He’d become a master indeed.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed it, please leave kudos if you did. 
> 
> I'm anglaisaph on tumblr if you'd like to rant about Hetalia ships.


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